But when the lions of the procession had all passed by, there followed also the crowd of stragglers.  From this post of observation we are told that Christ saw a poor widow advancing.  With falling tears, yet with exquisite grace and tenderness, she cast in two mites, or one half-penny, then passed on to worship him whom she loved, all unconscious of the fact that she had also passed into immortality.  For the noise of the gold falling into the resounding chest has long since died away.  Jerusalem itself is in ruins.  The old temple with its magnificence has gone to decay.  The proud thrones and monarchies have all fallen into dust.  But the silent fidelity of this obscure woman is a voice that thunders down the long aisles of time.  A thousand times hath she encouraged heroism in poet and parent.  Ten thousand times hath she been an inspiration to reformers and martyrs!  Love and fidelity have embalmed her deed and lent her immortality.  In the very center of the world’s civilization stands her monument.  For her Arc de Triomphe has been built in the human heart.  Her monument does not appeal to the eye; it is not carved in stone; yet it is more permanent than gold, and her fame outshines all flashing jewels.  While love and admiration endure the story of her humble fidelity shall abide indestructible!

The great Italian first noted that thrice only did Christ stretch forth his hand to build a monument, and each time it was to immortalize a deed of humble fidelity.  Once a disciple gave a cup of cold water to one of God’s little ones, and won thereby imperishable renown.  Once a woman broke an alabaster box for her master, and, lo! her deed has been like a broken vase, whose perfume has exhaled for two thousand years, and shall go on diffusing sweetness to the end of time.  Last of all, after the rich men of Alexandria had cast their rattling gold into the brazen treasury, a poor widow cast a speck of dust called two mites, and, lo! this humble deed gave her enduring recollection.

It seems that immortal renown is achieved not so much by the solitary deed of greatness as by humble fidelity to life’s details, and that modest Christian living that regards small deeds and minor duties.  Ours is a world in which life’s most perfect gifts and sweetest blessings are little things.  Take away love, daily work, sweet sleep, and palaces become prisons and gold seems contemptible.  The classic poet tells of Kind [Transcriber’s note:  King?] Midas, to whom was offered whatsoever he wished, and whose avarice led him to choose the golden touch.  But lo! his blessing became a curse.  Rising to dress he found himself shivering in a coat with threads of gold.  Going into his garden he stooped to breathe the perfume of the roses, and, lo! the dewy petals became yellow points that pierced his face.  Breakfasting, the bread became metal in his mouth.  Lifting a goblet the water became a solid mass.  Swinging his little daughter in his arms one kiss turned the sweet child into a cold statue.  A single hour availed to drive happiness from Midas’ heart.  In an agony of despair he besought the gods for simple things.  He asked for one cup of cold water, one cluster of fruit and his little daughter’s loving heart and hand.